Eleven years ago I am a vulture picking at a rabbit on the side of the road. I am just doing what I must to stay alive, and the casual observer passes by to observe, rapt, disgusted but unable to look away. Then a wind blows and I am Victor in the motel hallway, knees enclosed in my elbows, head tipped back against the wall and eyes on the ceiling in dismay. Then the train hits the tracks and I am cracked and reassembled in the present day, carrying all these ways that we’ve been gay. Feeling our burns of each degree, how we are learning family.